


Hanahaki: Side Story

by CottonCharms



Series: Hanahaki Series [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Gen, Haikyuu x Reader, Reader Insert, haikyuu!! - Freeform, miya atsumu x reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:06:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CottonCharms/pseuds/CottonCharms
Summary: You suffer the condition of Hanahaki for still loving your ex-husband, Miya Atsumu.
Relationships: Haikyuu/Reader, Miya Atsumu/Reader
Series: Hanahaki Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906567
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Hanahaki: Side Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for clicking my fic!

A space reserved for you; a place for just us two.

The keys have always been cold. The spaces of black in between white were present, never changing, with its tone adjusted with the higher octave on its string. Alone, you sit in center stage as the crowd awaits your skillful strokes on the piano. Their breath relaxes as they wait for their souls to be left speechless with your talent, but you hold yours.

The blossoms on your lungs were pushed back into the deepest crevice. Its rising vines were forced to be forgotten as the only thought you allowed to consume your mind was the piece for the audience on this frigid stage.

Do. Re. Mi. Fa. So. La. Ti.

You familiarize yourself with the ivory. 

Its size, almost the same with a fake replica you had back at your apartment. It was small, initially a gift of happiness and good luck, but now it has consumed too much space, a holder of dust, and remains as a curse and misgivings.

A memoir of broken memories and sufferings.

"Since you wanted one so much I thought I’d get it as a congratulatory gift for your first debut! Cool right!?”

You dwindle the edge of your jacket, averting your eyes from his gaze. “But it wasn’t even that much of a big deal to even acknowledge it as a debut. They called me last minute and they didn’t pay much attention to me. Compared to everyone I’m just a-”

”Who cares what they say! A debut is a debut!” Atsumu places his palms on top of your head, caressing the curls and anxiety away. “Those scrubs wouldn’t know talent even if it hits them in the face! Now, why don’t you play something for me would’ya? I’ve been dying to hear you play on it.”

You winced, the thorns threatened to spill blood on your lungs. Crescent marks left on your palm begin to break, a red drop trickled to the white marble floor.

Stop. Thinking. About. HIM. 

Focus. Inhale.

The quivering fingers registered each respective place, and you began the symphony with a press- its harmony set in tune with the gentle sweep of the pianissimo from the keys. Your movements glide across the keyboard with finesse and composure. 

“You should take good care of your hands.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, feeling his warmth as he brings your palm towards his like an inspection. He feels each crevice from his calluses over your own, admiring your hard work over the instrument.

“They’re moneymakers, yours and mine. Yours for piano and mine’s for volleyball.”He brings the tips closer to his lips, greeting each hardened skin in an innocent kiss. ”That’s why you should take care; fingers and everything else about you.”

A rising warmth from your chest lifts you as you basked in his adoration.

The blaze started with a kindle of heat on giddy temperament, as your shoulders dropped when the piece demanded forte. The beat of your heart quickened as it accustoms to the pace of the piece. The vibrations on each string send tremors from the tips of your fingers to your toes, which are tucked neatly below the piano by the pedal to sustain whatever the notes demand.

The embers of pain don't die down as you felt the piece and the meaning that it plays- for you, for the audience, and him. The initial conduct of soft melancholy has transformed into a blaze of ache and longing. The emphasis on the accent has your hair stand on ends. Its addictive nature makes you succumb to the rage of neglect and forgetfulness.

“I don’t think it’s working between you and me.” Miya Atsumu said with a void tone.

“We don’t have time for each other anymore. Not like we used to at least. And It’s time for us to spend time in better ways don’t you think?” 

You choked.

Your eyes scurry on the keys, it shifts swiftly from right to left at your peripheral in intense concentration. You do not skip even a single note. The pace came to you eloquently as you envelop the audience in your charisma of passion and solace. With fluid strokes and movement, you had transitioned the tune to return to its softness. The pace settled, and it dropped to give you a moment to breathe.

You pause. The piece demands a rest. 

A full rest count was all you needed to collect yourself. 

One. You gaze at the sheet in front.

Two. The fingers levitate above the ivory for the onslaught of languid strokes.

Three. You take a glance at the audience.

Four. You freeze. 

Your pupils dilated on the man in the front row. The familiar shade of blond couldn’t be easily missed, nor could the askew deformation of the tie around his neck be forgotten. His malpractice hasn’t changed even when his gaze has.

You swallow the hardened ache climbing up your throat. His eyes, too, widened in a mixed expression of fear, sadness, and anxiety. It no longer held the affectionate stare of pride and awe when you played at smaller crowds. You bit your lip in the iron aftertaste, the passage was blocked and you blame it all on anxiety.

You give yourself another rest count. 

“Be brave. The show must go on," he encouraged.

One. You return to your piece.

Two. You breathe from your nose. It was thin air that welcomed your lungs, but adrenaline mutes the other senses to numb in your resolve to fight.

Three. You exhale. Feeling the buds and the vines.

Four. You will show the world how to flaunt a grand finale.

They are silent. The audience consumed you in your mesmerizing display of power and skill. Your fingers were like before, languid but even more so, in a way that it smoothly glides like how a hot knife runs through butter. While the attack on keys was like hearing a raging downpour of rain as one after the other, you hold their souls at the tip of your plays, in a hypnotizing gesture that forces their senses to beg for more.

The surroundings spin, but your eyes are still transfixed to the keys. In the last few trembles of heart-pounding chords, your shoulders pull every ounce of energy it has left into the final softness to its end.

Pianissimo. The keys demand. Soft and longing like eternal slumber. 

You released your fingers from the final play and your hand settled above your chest, gripping your front dress from both relief of sweet release and agonizing sting. Your heart surged in the void where he had unknowingly planted the seeds of grief that chokes you with every sigh.

The chair scrapped behind as you stood to bask in a glorious finale. The satisfied gleam from your hard-earned smile was sent to the vast crowd, but it softens as it meets a familiar pair. Your scarlet lips lift upward as you force to show composure, tucking the stray hair behind your ear to reveal the cold golden jewelry against hot skin. 

“Wear it. I want to show the world that you’re mine when you’re on center stage.”

Miya Atsumu quivered. You would know if he wanted comfort in stressful situations when his hand fidgets in agitation. Could it be frustration? Regret? Nevertheless, a set of hands covers his own in reassurance for the pretense of ease for something as unknowingly horrifying from the play.

His orange-haired partner shook him to return from his transfixed distraught, but he doesn’t break his eyes from yours. Miya Atsumu, after months of blissful ignorance, had finally heard your cries in an unplanned farewell. 

It snaps him to reality like two strings pulled on both ends. The build-up of stress was too much to bear on either side that didn’t dare to let go. So instead, it thins out in tension, up until the last straw could handle, and whips him in a gashing red mark of red.

Your lips quivered in its last smile. As blood tarnished your cheek, you hacked a set of tainted scarlet Gladiolus to the back of your palm. 

The roars of applause that followed have muted into white noise. You hit your chest in successions of four, right before the final rest that your body demands. With trembling knees, you braced yourself by the piano to hold yourself up, but it failed as you were sent crashing to the keys of ivory. 

Your knees collided to the floor in an ungraceful fall, you feel the vibrations sent to your skull from the collision of your head to the marble tile. In desperation, your mouth opened to allow the access of air to your lungs, but dark red spills in copious amounts to the tainted floor. 

Should you breathe? Should you throw it up? You don’t know what to prioritize as everything ached.

You coughed out the flowers involuntarily, but you no longer care if he sees. Gladiolus sends a message of despair and he gulps. It's saliva, you hope, and not the tragic petals from the disease.

A set of curses, plague your mind. It was a pity to have your final play end into melodrama as your body curled in pain in front of an audience of thousands. It was even more so when your body poises at an angle that fixed itself to stare at none other than your ex-husband.

You closed your eyes, body sent into a coughing fit. He doesn’t need to be guilty of something he had no control over. The disease was a by-product of a chemical reaction that your immune system was too shitty to handle. 

“He deserves better.” Your lips smiled sadly, remembering the echoes of past conscience. “I would never be saved either way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Flower: Gladiolus  
> -the flower represents strength and character.  
> \- By giving a grieving family this flower, you remind them what wonderful people they are and encourage them to persevere on their grief journey.  
> -The flower does not ignore the pain of loss, and it effectively communicates your compassion in a difficult time.  
> \- But it is also an uplifting reminder of their strength and of the strength of their loved one, which motivates them as they enter into a difficult chapter of their lives.


End file.
